Just a Little Experiment
by Sageminty
Summary: Edited Version A few of Sherlock's scientific experiments...they're purely for science of course!
1. The First Kiss

**A/N:** Hello my lovelies! In case you didn't know, this story has already been published. I took it down awhile back and I'm in the process of editing every chapter and making them longer. I'm excited to see if it'll get as much love as it did when I first posted it!

**Word Count:** 1,012

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John was on his way home from the grocery. He carried a plastic bag in each hand, weighed down with milk, iodine, choleric acid and other various things Sherlock had sent him out to collect. It had been a few weeks since the insane man had gotten a case, and the boredom was quickly making him stir crazy. He ignored his flat mate most of the time, opting to focus on one experiment or another but still John felt the need to get out of the house at every moment possible. Sherlock was his best friend, but nobody wanted to be around the detective who shot walls, harpooned pigs, and pickled body parts when he was bored.

Outside the door of flat 221B, John lingered, debating if he should even go in at all. When he had left the lanky man had been bent over the kitchen table, eying something dark under his microscope that John had tried not to name. There was a whole tub of it in the refrigerator. Luckily it didn't stink like some of the other unidentifiable (and rather unfortunately, some of them were identifiable) objects he'd found.

Finally, John decided that he had to see his friend for at least a few minutes. He pushed open the black wooden door to the flat and made his way up the stairs. All was quiet in the small area and it gave him pause. Where was Sherlock? He set the plastic bags down on the dining room table, careful to miss any of Sherlock's mess, and called out for the tall man. Could he have left? Where would he go? "Sherlock?" he called again, making his way through the rooms.

The quiet sound of footsteps alerted him in the hall, and John whirled around, expecting the worst. Instead there stood his friend, a rather peculiar expression on his face. Purple bags stood out dark on the man's unusually pale face, but gone were the blue house coat and slippers that were Sherlock's typical uniform when he didn't have any cases. He had started looking ragged in the past few days, but he wore a crisp suit and was freshly shaved.

John let out a sigh of relief, both for finding his friend cleaned up and for finding him in general.

"Oh thank goodness, Sherlock, I thought you were a burglar of some sort."

Instead of saying anything, the curly haired man stepped closer.

John, noting his strange expression, gave a small step back. "Sherlock?" he asked inquisitively, his relief dying quickly. There was something not right here.

Again, no response from Sherlock, only another step forward. Again, John moved back, but the wall blocked his path. He swallowed nervously, glancing down either side of the hall, but he saw nothing that could help him. This time when Sherlock stepped forward their bodies were but a breath apart.

"Are you alright?" John tried, hoping his voice didn't wobble with the words. For whatever reason his stomach was alight in small, quivering butterflies. He tried not to think about why.

"Quite," was the reply. Sherlock reached down and grabbed the smaller man's hands, pulling them above John's head. There they were trapped against the wall, held firmly in place. John struggled slightly, but with the close proximity found he couldn't think properly.

Suddenly, Sherlock swooped down and forced his mouth against the shorter man's. Every thought, every memory, every idea in John's head instantly abandoned him and he found himself blank. All he could think of was the way Sherlock felt, against his mouth, his body, everywhere.

The taller man dropped one long fingered hand and tangled it in his friend's hair before turning his head and deepening the kiss. His mouth was forceful, not gentle, and yet strangely alluring. Just like Sherlock himself. John even found himself responding. He kissed Sherlock back, their tongues swirling in a way that made his knees crumple.

The kiss ended quickly though, as Sherlock stepped away. The strange look on his face was gone, but he was breathing heavily. "And how was that?" he asked, sounding normal as if nothing had happened. The first word from John's mouth was "Brilliant", his own voice rather ragged from a lack of air. He hadn't even thought the single word before it popped out, and his cheeks colored with the implications.

Sherlock nodded, and then quickly stalked into the living room. "Did you hear that?" his voice carried down the hall. John staggered after him and quickly slumped into the first available chair, dropping his head in his hands. His brain was finally catching up and the realization of what had just happened made him queasy.

"Yes, I heard. And I saw it too." Mycroft's voice made John look up. Sherlock sat facing a laptop on the coffee table that displayed his older brother's disapproving face.

"Well, that proves it doesn't it?"

"Proves what?" John asked, finding he could think, at least somewhat properly, again.

Sherlock turned. "It proves that I don't have to practice anything to get it perfect, such as kissing for example." He looked back at the screen. "You heard it yourself! Didn't you hear John, 'Brilliant!' he said!"

"Wait, so you mean the only reason you kissed me, was to prove a point to Mycroft?"

"Of course, why else would I kiss you?" came the snappy reply.

John dropped his head back into his hands again, ignoring the tiny ache that sparked at Sherlock's words. Instead he focused on just trying to delete the entire experience from his mind. Mycroft and his younger brother continued to argue in the background, but John was deep in thought. He most certainly would not explore the origins of that tiny pain, the pain caused with Sherlock's reason for kissing him. And he most certainly would not explore the tiny, faint moan that he had heard Sherlock give when their lips met. A moan so faint and involuntary the John himself had barley heard it. No, he would let sleeping dogs lie and forget the matter entirely.

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I want to try something one of my favorite authors does though...I won't post the next chapter until I get six comments on this one! Don't have to be good, don't have to be bad, just post 'em!

**-SM**


	2. Little Blue Notebook

**A/N:** I'm sorry this one came up a little late! I saw this morning, before I left for school, that the six comment requirement had been reached, but I didn't have time to upload the next chapter. But here it is. Enjoy!

**Word Count:** 941

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John knew something was afoot. Sherlock had disappeared into his room several hours earlier. Laptop in hand, he'd slammed the door shut with a ring of finality.

John had heard nothing from the back room for a long time, as if a great silence had been stretched over the four walls and its inhabitant. He was almost on the edge of his seat with anticipation, just waiting for something to blow up. Instead, thirty minutes later, he heard the sound of shouting. The voice was definitely Sherlock's, being a rather rich and deep baritone, though if he was talking to someone or just himself, John didn't know. He didn't particularly want to know. His flat mate sounded pissed. A few times there was also the sound of something hard being thrown against the wall.

_Better his than my room _John thought sulking, once again turning up the volume on the telly. He had tried and failed many times to get interested in the show being displayed there. He couldn't even remember the name of it though; much less loose himself in it. But he refused to be driven out of the house today, even by a crazy flat mate. In the past few weeks he'd already spent all his spending cash keeping himself busy and away from the apartment.

Sherlock's racket brought his mind wandering once again back to the tall, strange man. John hadn't forgotten their…..encounter. He shuddered just thinking of it, unable to keep himself still. Whether it was because of fear or excitement though, he wasn't sure. Rather than follow the feeling further, he shut it down, blocking it off. Shaking his head, John tried to tune back into the program only to find it had cut to commercial. Colgate toothpaste flashed across the screen, a woman's voice speaking about how much whiter her teeth were now. John couldn't help but imagine Sherlock in the back of his mind, sighing "Borrrrrriiiing" and then flipping the channel.

The sound of a door hitting the wall at break neck speeds whipped John's head around. The sudden crash had caused him to startle as he turned to see Sherlock stalking out of his room like a wild animal. His normally intense gaze was half crazed as he began to pace back and forth in the living room. The aura coming off him was incredibly dark, an almost visible storm cloud followed him, his face shinning with a slight sheen of sweat. Whatever he'd been doing in his room had worked him into a tizzy.

John, feeling cornered, tried to slide further back into his chair. He wanted to get up and leave. Anywhere would be finally really, just not…here. Sherlock's personal cloud of madness was practically eating him alive. He could feel it already gnawing at the very edges of his mind, trying to drag him down into the same chaos that seemed to forever occupy Sherlock. If he didn't get out of there soon it might just succeed. Moving would catch Sherlock's attention though and so instead John sat very, very still feeling more and more every second like a trapped piece of prey.

The curly haired man was still in his own world, running a hole into the carpet as he paced. He was chewing on the fingernail of his left thumb, a new habit of his that he'd developed. He only did it when he was really worried about something. John was just about to muster up the courage to make a dash for his own bedroom when Sherlock cried "I've got it!" He hurried back to his room and emerged again a millisecond later, a blue notebook clasped in his hands.

John eyed him warily as he approached. Whatever had possessed the mad man only gripped him tighter though as he sat and began scribbling in the book. His hand flew over the page, revealing tall arched letters. He didn't slow until the first eight pages were entirely full.

"There," Sherlock looked at it proudly. "Let's see if he calls me unscientific now! All I have to do is plan the next experiment. I'll need to do some research first though." He dropped the book on the coffee table and retreated to his room once more, blue house coat swishing around his legs. Obviously the improvement from the other day hadn't lasted.

John relaxed like the mouse who had escaped the cat's claws. Curiosity gnawed at him as he glanced over at the spiraled notebook, though he'd only been in the room alone with it for a short period. He looked back at Sherlock's shut door, then back at the book, to the door, and to the notebook once more. Finally, he risked it.

The notebook was light in his hands but sturdy. He flipped open to the first page, startled to see a clean table of contents there. There was only one listing. "Involuntary Kiss, Pages 2-8" it read, following it was the date from two days before. _Involuntary Kiss? That's a rather strange name…._He flipped to page two and skimmed the neatly written paragraphs there. Right off the bat he spotted his name. It appeared over and over again…_Eight, nine, ten, eleven…._He counted mentally, turning the pages briskly. He stopped and read a full section, his face turning redder and redder by the second. It described, in full detail, exactly how John _tasted._ He gaped at the words like a fish gasping for water. "An underlying tone of sweet, warm honey," he read out loud. Without another thought, John dropped the now seemingly tainted blue book and went to scrub its horrors from his mind.

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It has been brought to my attention that I might be scarring off my shy readers with this comment requirement. I apologize, that's not what I'm trying to do at all! I just really love hearing people's opinions. You have no idea how much they mean to me. So if you don't want to post a review, or you're scared to, then please don't feel pressured to. Let those who are more vocally inclined do it. When I first posted this story it got 100 in total. I'm pretty sure it'll get just as many this time around.

For chapter three; six comments (again)

**-SM**


	3. Holding Hands Part One

**A/N:** Hello again! Someone was asking when we would finally get a chapter from Sherlock's point of view. All I have to say is patience! This story has thirteen chapters in total. Of them, only two (maybe three, I forget sometimes) are Sherlock's. One is coming up soon though!

**Word Count:** 948

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John sighed as he finally….FINALLY sank onto the soft cushion of his favorite chair. He hadn't been able to just sit down and simply enjoy himself in weeks. It felt like forever.

Across the room Sherlock was already draped dramatically over the couch, his long limbs sprawled in every which direction. The sound of his heavy breathing confirmed John's suspicions that he was already asleep. They'd been running all over London since two that morning, and it was now almost ten. The day before the only sleep John had gotten was in the car on the way to the various crime scenes Sherlock had to been called out to. The entire month had gone like this; sleeping on the road, eating fast food, chasing criminals through the streets at ungodly hours. Sherlock seemed to thrive off of this kind of behavior, but John was thoroughly sick of it. Weeks of peace and boredom, then weeks of chaos and crimes. It was ridiculous. All he wanted was to sleep in his own bed for more than three hours at a time, each and every night. His chair was the closer to the door though, and he had sunk gratefully into its warm embrace. Sleep over came him almost immediately, only a little slower than it had consumed Sherlock.

John jerked awake, alerted by a loud thud. A disgruntled cry followed quickly after. Hastily, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his senses on high alarm. Sunlight filtered in through the blinds, bathing the small living room in warm light. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary….except for the large grumbling bundle on the floor behind the coffee table.

"Sherlock?" John called to it, his voice quiet and his mind cautious. Call it the solider in him. One never truly forgets the things they learn on a battlefield.

The bundle lifted its curly head and then dropped it again, sounding quite miffed. It flailed a few second longer before pulling a silver object from the many folds of the entangled coat before it disappeared again inside the moving cloth. Not even a few seconds later, John's phone buzzed in his pocket. Sighing, he pulled it out and opened it, already losing patience with the ridiculous consulting detective.

I can't get up. – SH

John's eye twitched. He didn't know whether to laugh at the stupidity of it or scream to the high heavens. As he stood his 'bad leg' cramped slightly. The result of too many hours running and not enough of sleeping. Ignoring it, he shuffled over to Sherlock who lay perfectly still on the floor, face buried in the carpet.

"Oi, Sherlock, get up."

He nudged the body lightly with his foot. It groaned loudly, the sound muffled.

"Sherlock, seriously, get up."

John nudged him again, though it was more like a kick. The bundle only grumbled louder and John thought he even detected a few curse words. Rare for Sherlock. Cursing was almost taboo to him.

"Fine, lay on the floor and die. See how I care."

He turned to walk away but suddenly Sherlock's rather large hand was wrapped around his ankle. The grumbling became a roar.

"Mffelp mer ummp!" came the indignant shout. "Pmwease?" was added on as a sort of afterthought.

John sighed and rubbed his hand down his face. "No, Sherlock. Get up yourself." The hand released and a few short seconds later John's phone buzzed again.

It'll be dangerous. –SH

John rolled his eyes heaven ward, praying to whatever God there may be for patience.

"Fine, whatever," he turned to help up his friend. "You're a pain in my arse, you know that Sherlock? Completely and utterly ridiculous."

Not only did he have to pull Sherlock up onto his feet, the irritating man was about as limp and useful as a two hundred pound rag doll. Once standing without John to support him, the world's only consulting detective blinked his eyes in confusion then grabbed the other man's face. Sherlock squinted at him, coming closer and closer, his face distorted. His mouth was open just a tad and John could feel his warm breath.

"Umm, Sherlock." John hadn't forgotten the last time Sherlock had acted like this. His head swam with the memory of it. _Just a little closer…._a part of him practically licked its lips in anticipation. The other part was tempted to run away.

Suddenly, Sherlock dropped his hands and pulled away.

"Yup, I lost my contacts," he declared, as if everything was normal and dandy in the world and John's heart wasn't threatening to break through his rib cage. The shorter man let out a shaky breath.

"I didn't even know you wore contacts."

"Well now you do."

"Okay, do you know where they-"

A sigh. "Honestly, John, what did I just say? I lost them. The definition of lost being no longer able to be found."

"Fine. Do you have another-"

"Nope, those were my last ones."

"Do you have any gla-"

"No. I threw them out."

Tentatively, "…..why?"

"Acid ate through the lenses. They were no longer wearable."

John sighed, giving up. "Fine, do you know where to get some new contacts?"

"I should have an order coming in tomorrow."

"Good." John nodded affirmatively, satisfied that the situation had been resolved, at least in theory. The somewhat normality of the conversation had calmed his nerves.

Sherlock moved away, heading for the kitchen.

"How bad are your eyes anyways?" John called after him. The sight of the curly haired man running straight into the hall way wall was enough of an answer.

Sherlock turned, his nose a now bright shade of red and slightly squashed. "Well that hurt."

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Phew! Six seems to be too easy for you guys! Let's try ten shall we?

**-SM**


	4. Holding Hands Part Two

**A/N:** To heck with the comment limit thing. It works for some authors, but I don't really like it. Instead, since all the chapters are already written, I'll release another one every couple of days or so.

**Word Count:** 939

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"Well that hurt."

John stared at the blunt man for several seconds before letting out an exasperated sigh.

"So you're more blind than a bat. Oh well, you'll just have to spend the day stumbling around the flat. No going out for you."

Sherlock squinted in John's general direction and then wobbly made his way towards him. It seemed without his vision, Sherlock was totally off balance. It was comical, made even more so by how concentrated he was on the simple act of walking. When he finally reached John he turned abruptly and fell onto the couch, throwing his head back to glare at the ceiling.

"I hate not being able to see," he grumbled. "And bats aren't blind, just you know," he added.

"Well if you hadn't lost your contacts you wouldn't have this problem, now would you?" John snapped. He hadn't meant to be rude, but he suddenly realized how uncomfortable he was. The house was hot, hotter than usual, and he was still dressed in the same dirt smeared clothes he'd been wearing for the past 48 hours.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said, "don't get into any trouble, and don't go anywhere. You'd get hit by a bus or something."

Sherlock didn't respond.

When John emerged from his room twenty minutes later, freshly washed and shaven, Sherlock was still in the same position. The shorter man stopped, rubbing his hair dry with a towel, and contemplated him. After total silence for a few minutes John sighed and made his way into the kitchen, dropping the towel on the counter in order to dig up something to eat. Other than a jar of ears in the cupboard, unidentifiable red gunk in the sink and a still (somehow) beating heart in the fridge, John gave up. If he weren't used to such sights already, his appetite would have left him in a hurry. As it was, his stomach still growled. He could just order a pizza or something, but buying food for the next few days would be more efficient. Already the majority of his funds had been spent ignoring Sherlock. He'd have to dig a little into his savings in order to survive till his next paycheck.

"Sherlock, I'm going out," he called, already pulling on his coat. "I'm going grocery shopping. I'll be sure to buy more milk."

A loud thump came from the living room and then Sherlock came bounding into the hall. "I'm coming too!" he declared loudly.

"Wha-"

"I'm bored, John. BORED."

"Sherlock, we just finished three big cases. Take some time off!"

The look on Sherlock's face was all John needed, a cross between 'are you out of your damned mind?' and 'pretty pretty please?'How the two worked together, John didn't know but Sherlock pulled it off.

John sighed once more (a common habit of his) and ran a hand through his hair. Sherlock was just as grimy as he'd been before he took a shower. Certainly wouldn't be able to go out in public with him looking like that. Without being able to see though….there were plenty of bottles in the bathroom with no labels. When one exploded after it fell onto the floor, leaving a nice baseball sized hole in the tile, John learned to stay well away from them. Sherlock wouldn't be able to tell what bottle was which though. Maybe if he just changed clothes…..No. He probably wouldn't even be able to tell what he was putting on, much less how to…..and he might ask John for help. His cheeks colored just thinking of it.

"Here, just…put on your coat." John handed it to him but looked away. His face was starting to burn and he thanked God that Sherlock wouldn't be able to see it.

Sherlock slipped into his coat, grinning like a little boy on Christmas.

"Alright, are you re-"

"Yup!" Sherlock chirped, twining his fingers with John's.

John stood stock still for a moment, and then slowly lifted his hand to look at it. Sherlock's long fingers fit almost perfectly between his. If he wanted the blush to go away, this certainly didn't help.

"Ummm, why?"

Sherlock sighed, his earlier enthusiasm seemingly crushed by John's stupidity. "I can't see, John. Do you just expect me to risk walking around the city trying to follow a grey blob with your voice?"

John tried to work it over in his mind but found it rather blank. "Uh, fine, okay I guess that's...fine…."

"Good, then lead the way!"

John and Sherlock left their flat of 221B Baker Street, hand in hand.

To say they got questioning stares is, at the very least, an understatement. To say John was fidgety is an even bigger understatement. He walked briskly down the sidewalks, towing Sherlock after rather hoping the tall man would let go. Alas he didn't.

At the store, John didn't bother with a buggy and instead grabbed a basket. He handed it to Sherlock without a word and continued on. Not even looking in the other man's direction, he stalked down the aisles, pulling random objects from the shelves, and chunked them into the plastic basket.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was totally relaxed. A small, knowing smile stayed fixed upon his face and not once did he complain of the heavy objects in his basket nor the fast pace John hauled him along at. In fact, he almost seemed to be enjoying it.

John tried not to analyze the situation too much though. This day was definitely going into that mental drawer of his, labeled, in large red letters, "Do Not Open".

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I would still love reviews though, of course. ^^

**-SM**


	5. Holding Hands Part Three

**A/N:** I'm sorry for how long this update took! I meant to put it up a couple of days after chapter four, but I found that I had a lot of editing to do on it! This is actually a Sherlock POV chapter. (Yay!) But when I reread it, I found it rather bland and lacking of his personality, so I tried to insert more of that. Hope you enjoy! Oh, and this is also the last segment of the holding hands bit.

**Word Count:** 918

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Back at the flat, both men sat silently in the living room; John in his chair and Sherlock on the couch. The groceries were all put away, the plastic bags stored under the sink for future use. Of course it had been John who had done this. Sherlock had promptly sat himself down and steepled his fingers under his chin, as if this were possibly the most interesting activity he'd ever seen his flat mate complete.

John, now, was pretending to watch telly and Sherlock used this as an advantage to openly analyze him. His vision? Perfectly fine. 20/20. He never once in his life wore contacts. John didn't need to know that though, not right now at least. It was all part of the experiment.

Sherlock was still categorizing John's reactions. _Abnormal coloring to the cheeks and ears, increased heart rate, breathing heavily, refusal to look at me…._The list continued on and on in his mind, growing more detailed by the second. Finally he could stand it no more. Vaulting up from his seat, he practically somersaulted all the way to his room. Already his storm of madness was brewing, getting ready to break at any second and bring a down pour of the inevitable.

John did what he was best at; pretended not to notice. It really was a useful quality.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, which was rarely used, and started writing up his report. His paper of choice was of course the little blue notebook. It even had John's name scrawled across the front in Sherlock's curved writing.

"Hand Holding" the page read. Beneath it he gave the steps for the experiment, the cautions and warnings, the results, and his analysis. He still needed his conclusion though, but he found he was missing a few key pieces of information. Tapping the pen against the book in irritation, Sherlock back tracked his mind to see what he could have possibly missed.

"Ah," he sighed, shaking his head. _Stupid, stupid. How did I miss that? I was too occupied with all the evidence. _

He was back in the living room in no time, excitement pouring through him and his personal storm following at close quarters.

"John!" he yelled, coming to a skidding stop in front of his lounging friend. He leaned over, placing his hands on the arms of the chair, trapping John between him and it.

"What did you think, John?" he asked, unable to prevent himself from leaning closer. Honestly, this experiment was the most fun he'd had in weeks! Yesterday, when Lestrade had called about a theft case, Sherlock had even turned him down so that he could continue. (A theft case was never very interesting in the first place.)

Something flashed in John's eyes as he self-consciously tried to back away from Sherlock. "Think about what?" he asked grumpily, clearly not happy with the space Sherlock was invading.

"Holding hands, holding hands man! What else!"

John scooted back further, avoiding eye contact.

_There it is, refusal to look me in the eyes again._

"What do you bloody mean hand holding, Sherlock? Why does it even matter?"

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Mad men are impatient after all. "Okay, John, I'm only going to explain this once. So listen carefully."

John eyed him skeptically.

"You are my new experiment, understand? I need your cooperation. Today was one of, many, many planned experiments. I-"

"Whoa, whoa whoa." John shook his head. "I'm you're experiment?" his voice rose on the last word.

"John, that's not the important part."

"Not the important part? Sherlock, bloody hell. You can't just use me as some scientific toy!"

Sherlock gave a dignified sniff. "You're not a toy, you're a specimen. Now, if you could, just answer my question?"

John gritted his teeth, but he could see the determination on his flat mate's face. He sighed. "Fine, but only this once! I will not stand to be experimented on. You just don't do that to people Sherlock, you don't. I'll move out if I have to. I swear I will!"

"Swear all you want John, just answer my damned question! What. Did. You. Think?"

The shorter man glared at him for a few seconds longer before giving in. "I thought you'd lost your bloody mind, and I thought I'd die from embarrassment with all those people staring at us." He paused, eyes darting to stare at something, anything but the man before him. "Also, your hand is really warm."

_There! A slight blush. _

"Good, very good. Thank you!" Sherlock pushed off from the chair and quickly returned to his journal.

'Embarrassment proves my earlier hypothesis; John H Watson is physically attracted to men, specifically me, Sherlock Holmes. More testing may be necessary though.' he wrote. A tapping at his door brought Sherlock back to reality.

"What is it John," he sighed.

The shorter man stood at his door, still looking slightly aggravated by their earlier conversation, but more exasperated than anything. "Do you even wear contacts?" he asked, already expecting an answer.

"No, John, I do not wear contacts."

His friend sighed, ran a hand down his face and then left.

A few seconds later, Sherlock heard his voice from the kitchen. "Tea in twenty."

Sherlock sat for a moment and then wrote a side note in the margin of his page.

'Has a unique ability to forgive and forget. If possible, find the limits of said ability.'

* * *

What do you think? Was it Sherlocky enough?

**-SM**


	6. A Bite of a Kiss

**A/N:** Again, another late update. Sorry. But school is out now, so I'll have much more time on my hands! (I hope) Anyways, there are seven more chapters to this story. Are you guys excited?

**Word Count:** 1,038

* * *

John awoke cross nearly every morning now. His dreams were now haunted with visions of Sherlock. He would be standing over him, scalpel in hand, John's wrists and ankles tied down to the cold metal beneath him. It was downright scary.

"I'm not a bloody specimen," he grumbled, rolling out of bed, shivering despite himself.

The house was quiet as he padded out, still dressed in loose pyjamas. Sherlock was nowhere to be found and John was glad. He wasn't in the mood to deal with the other man's eccentricities. But alas, it was not to be. John was standing in the kitchen, smearing a more than healthy serving of blackberry jam onto his toast when the door downstairs opened and shut. Following it was the sound of pounding footsteps on the old, wooden stairs.

"And three, two, one…" murmured John. Right on zero Sherlock burst into the flat.

He turned, eyes wild, until he spotted John at the kitchen counter.

"John!" he cried. Sherlock approached and took the shorter man by the shoulders, shaking him. "They don't have any cases, John!"

John stepped out of his grasp, trying not to notice the limited amount of space between them. "Well they don't need you for every case, Sherlock," he said, returning to his toast.

Sherlock gave a noise similar to a growl and started pacing beside the ridiculously cluttered table. "I need a case, John. I NEED it!" He was silently cursing himself for giving up the small case Lestrade had called him about a week ago. Now there was absolutely nothing.

John sighed and tossed the butter knife into the sink, now clear of its gooey red coating.

"Sherlock, I think you'll live. They'll probably have a case here in the next week or so. You have to remember though, you just solved three big ones less than a month ago. All those smart criminals you love so much are probably a little intimidated."

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "If they're even worth my time then they'd see me as a challenge and be even more willing to commit the crimes!"

John closed the jam jar, using more force than was necessary. "Look," he rounded on his friend. "I don't know what to tell you Sherlock! Go, toy with one of your little test tubes or something," he gestured to the dining table and all of its acquired scientific equipment.

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned slowly to face his flat mate. "Yes," he said quietly, a smiling growing on his face, "I think an experiment is just what I need to keep me occupied!"

A shiver traveled down John's spine.

_Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh God what have I done?_

He was just about to remind Sherlock of his commitment to moving out when Sherlock spun on his heel and hurried to his room.

"I've got research to do!" he called over his shoulder.

John blinked after him, an unsettling feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

Needless to say, John spent the day away from flat 221B. He went to the coffee shop, visited the library, stopped by several antique shops and sat and read in a little café for a few hours. He kept a watch over his shoulder the entire time, in case Sherlock decided to pull him into a dark alley. He also turned his phone off, just in case the detective decided to text him. He needn't have though, as it was silent all day long.

By the time night fell, John knew he had to go back home. He considered going to sit in a pub for awhile, but the chances of Sherlock coming to find him increased every second he was away. Better to have, what he was sure would be, a knock out drag out fight (John was certainly not putting up with anymore 'tests') in the privacy of one's own home instead of in front of a group of rowdy, drunk spectators. So home he went.

At the bottom of the stairs, John stopped to listen. Nothing. Not even the creak of footsteps on the wooden floors. He headed up cautiously, though what exactly he was expecting he wasn't sure. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but the door to his room was shut tight. John wasn't keen on finding out if his friend was home or not, so he turned, ready to head to his room and not reappear until the next morning, hopefully, when everything blew over.

A sudden crash caused John to stop in his tracks. Without looking back he knew Sherlock's door had been thrown open. His first instinct was to run, but before he could unfreeze his body he felt Sherlock's hand wrap around his wrist. A hard tug and John spun to face his attacker.

"Where have you been?" The anger in Sherlock's eyes was genuine.

"I-"

"Oh never mind, it doesn't matter." With that Sherlock pulled on John again, causing him to stumble forward into the larger man's arms. Their lips met almost as if it were an accident, but the force Sherlock applied assured John it was no such thing.

Once again, John's brain short circuited. One second his only thoughts were to get away, the next they were filled with Sherlock. _more, More, MORE!_ His mind screamed, and his body responded, leaning in and opening his mouth.

Sherlock was only happy to oblige, deepening the kiss and sliding one arm around John's waist to pull him closer all in the same instant.

The frenzied pattern of lips was broken as Sherlock opened his mouth a little wider and suddenly bit down on John's bottom lip; hard.

John let out a sound that was between a cry and a moan, feeling a quiver of ecstasy travel through him.

Sherlock pulled away to look him in the eyes. "Good?" he asked, his face flushed with heat.

John nodded enthusiastically, unable to stop himself.

The pale eyed man's gaze dropped back to John's now rather pink lips but then tore himself away, almost painfully. He retreated to his room leaving John to stand, alone, in the hall. Without a word he slumped against the wall, trying to calm his racing heart.

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I love hearing from you guys. Please comment!

**-SM**


	7. Compliments

**A/N:** Hey guys. Sorry for the delay. My best friend is visiting from Dallas. She'll be leaving next week. Once she's gone my posts will be regular again. Until then this chapter will have to hold you over. Sorry!

**Word Count:** 1,068

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The suitcase was packed. John stood in front of his bed, where the luggage perched, just staring at it. The green duffel bag held all of his worldly possessions; laptop, toothbrush, clothes, books and all. The edges of it weren't even bulging.

Sighing, John left his room to scan the house for anything else he had missed.

Sherlock was out on a case, one that John had kindly refused. Some murder or something. He'd warned Sherlock that if he used him as an experiment again that'd he would be forced to leave. And by God he would stick to his word, even if the thought of it made him sick to his stomach.

After spotting nothing else of possible possession, John grabbed the black handles of his bag and headed for the door. He only just managed to back up before it swung open and nearly smacked him. "Damn it," John cursed under his breath. He'd been hoping to avoid having to explain his actions in person. A nice text would have done well enough. He had even left a note on the refrigerator door, though he doubted Sherlock would ever see it, hence the text.

"Where are you going and why do you have a bag?" Sherlock's voice was cold, as was his expression. He stood just outside the door, long coat billowing about his legs and his favorite blue scarf safely secured about his neck.

John swallowed nervously. "I'm leaving, Sherlock."

"Obviously, John. Answer my question. Where are you going and why do you have a bag?"

"I'm going to my sister Harry's. I'm to live with her for awhile until I find a flat that I can afford by myself." There was an almost imperceptible twitch in Sherlock's eye, but John noticed it. What he'd said had upset him.

"Why?" the voice was quiet.

"I told you. I will not be used as an experiment. I am your friend and flat mate, not some bloody specimen." John's words were harsher than he'd meant them to be but with them he could feel the weight of the emotion they carried. He was not going to be manipulated and played with like a fish on a hook!

"You're feeling unappreciated." Sherlock stepped closer, closing the door behind him. He took John's bag from him and headed back up the stairs. "Come on then," he called, though not light heartedly. "I want to do something."

John pushed past a lump forming in his throat and reluctantly followed his friend up the stairs. Sherlock sat at the desk, placing the bag upon it, and motioned for John to sit in his chair. He did. "What's this all about Sherlock?" he asked. "I've already made up my mind. I told you not to do it again and you did."

"I don't understand, John. You should be flattered! I don't study just anyone you know."

John's cheeks colored a little at that, but he shook the feeling off. "I don't care! You're invading my personal space, and uh..d-doing things to me that I don't ap-ppreciate." He found himself stuttering as the memories of exactly what Sherlock had been 'doing' came back to him.

"I'm sorry, I was under the impression that you enjoyed it. Just yesterday, when I kissed you and asked you if it was any good you clearly nodded yes, very enthusiastically I might add. And the first time you said 'Brilliant'!" Sherlock sounded angry, but his eyes betrayed that he was really just trying to understand the situation, something that stopped John in his tracks. He, John Hamish Watson, confused Sherlock Holmes? If he had a day to just sit and let that sink in, he would. As it was, he didn't even have a minute. "Whether I enjoyed it or not isn't relevant. I asked you not to do it again."

"Whether you enjoyed it or not, which you _did_, is completely relevant!"

Both men glared at each other from across the room. All of sudden, the hard expression on Sherlock's face changed, as if something had just dawned on him.

"I know!"

"You always know," John grumbled, only half to himself.

Sherlock, ignoring the comment, continued, "I have another experiment in mind. If you can honestly tell me you don't like it then you're free to go."

John ran his tongue over his teeth, contemplating the offer. Finally, he sighed. "As long as you don't kiss me."

Sherlock looked delighted. "Nope, no kissing!" He opened several drawers on the desk, rummaging loudly through them until he found what he was looking for; the note book. He flipped open to a page, grabbed a pen, and sat forward in his chair. "I just need you to tell me exactly, and I do mean exactly, what comes to your mind when I say different things."

John was quiet for a second. "What kind of things?" he replied slowly.

Sherlock hopped up and came to kneel in front of John's chair. "John, you are my single best friend and I don't know what I'd do without you."

John stared at him, fidgeting slightly.

"There, how does that make you feel?"

John cleared his throat. "Umm, happy I guess? Look, Sherlock why are we-"

"Next one! You mean the world to me."

John self consciously licked his lips, something he did when nervous. "Seriously Sherlock, why are we-"

"Just respond, John!"

"Fine, you mean the world to me too?" his voice rose slightly.

"Good. Now," he leaned forward onto his toes and placed his hands on John's knees.

"What would you say if I told you you're brilliant?"

"I'd expect you to tag on 'but not as brilliant as me'."

Sherlock's face scrunched up a bit. "Strange response. Okay," he slid his hands up John's legs, "How about…..I love the way you can't resist me when I kiss you."

John's face colored hotly. "W-what?"

"You heard me." Again, up his hands moved and suddenly John's head was filled with very…very bad pictures. He jumped up, nearly knocking Sherlock over in the process and moved to the other side of the room. "Fine, I'll stay," he snapped, trying to hide his embarrassment and the fact that he was extremely turned on. "Just don't do that again!" The smirk on Sherlock's face was enough to drive him back to his room, bag in hand, with the excuse he was going to unpack.

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Like I said, my friend is visiting, so if I didn't catch all the mistakes I apologize!

**-SM**


	8. It's Research!

**A/N:** Hello once again! My dear friend has gone home, which should mean fast updating for the last five chapters…however the charger to my laptop has decided to break….AGAIN. I'm stuck using my home computer. It's quirky and doesn't allow me to edit my documents on ff, so I'm doing this all on word. If the formatting is off a little bit, that's why!

**Word Count:** 865 (Sorry, this one is a bit short!)

John couldn't find his laptop. After unpacking it a few days ago, it had mysteriously disappeared. He'd searched high and low for it; under the sofa, in the cabinets, under his bed, and even in the bathroom(though why it'd be in there he wasn't quite sure). No such luck though.

He stood in the center of the living room, eyeing the larger stacks of junk and wondered if he really had to dig through them. He did try his hardest to keep the little house clean, but somehow Sherlock's stuff always seemed to pick itself up and out of its designated spot and take residence in the most random areas; the tables, chairs, floors, pretty much anything with a flat surface. The clutter and stuff was almost as half as annoying as the man who owned it.

The only place John hadn't checked for his laptop yet was Sherlock's room. He had a niggling suspicion that it was in the mad man's grasp. After their previous encounter, John was feeling a little more kindly towards his flat mate (after all, he hadn't kissed him), but not enough to venture into the man's room alone and unarmed. It didn't look like he had a choice though, unless he wanted to dig through the numerous unnamable….things…. piled around the room.

Sighing, John ran a hand through his hair. He turned the idea over and over in his mind. He needed his laptop. If he didn't blog soon his psychiatrist was going to chew him out…again. And he could totally tell her 'Oh yeah, I couldn't blog because Sherlock stole my laptop and I couldn't get it back because I was scared he was going to rape me.' That'd blow over real well. Not that Sherlock had made any intention of getting any more physical than a kiss, John still felt the need to keep him at arm's length at the moment.

Finally, he gave in and made his way towards the foreboding closed door of Sherlock's room. He knocked once, his other hand clenching and unclenching by his side. When there was no answer he knocked again, a little harder. Again, no answer. He considered just turning around and going to dig through everything in the living room, but something pushed him forward, made him open the door and step into the room. It wasn't nearly as cluttered as the rest of the house. In fact, the room could be considered bare. The only ornamentation was a periodic table of elements on the wall.

There, sitting on his bed, was Sherlock. He was reclined against the pillows, the screen of John's laptop tilting slightly away, causing him to be unable to see what was on it due to a glare. Whatever it was though, it fascinated Sherlock. He stared at the screen with rapture, like it was the most interesting case in the world. The ear buds protruding from his ears answered why he hadn't heard John knock.

"Sherlock!" the word was almost shouted.

Sherlock snapped his head to the side, surprise registering on his face. It faded quickly. He pulled the buds from his ears. "Can I help you, John? I'm a little busy researching."

"I need my laptop, Sherlock. Why can't you use yours?"

Sherlock glanced at the screen then back at John. Was that guilt? No, not possible. "The memory on yours is already full of this. I'd prefer not to taint mine. Besides, yours has better virus software."

"Full of what?" the question was tentative. What would give his laptop viruses?

Instead of answering, Sherlock turned the laptop around so John could see it. Two bodies writhed together on the screen.

John's jaw hit the floor. "You're…you're watching_ porn_ on my laptop!"

"Not watching, researching," the tone was deadpan, as if he did these things every day.

John closed his mouth, gulping hard. "Look, you could at least put a sock on the door so I don't walk in or anything." He was about to turn to walk away when Sherlock waved his hand, dismissing John's words.

"I wasn't masturbating, John," John's face blanched, "I told you, I was researching."

He was silent for a minute, then finally something clicked in John's mind. His entire face turned red. "If you ever do that," he pointed at the still moving bodies on the screen, "to me, not only will I move out, I'll file rape charges against you. Don't think I won't!" Despite the bold words, his voice was no more than a mere squeak.

Sherlock scoffed, as if the idea were ridiculous. "You're not my only experiment, John." He turned the laptop back towards him, already focusing in on the screen again. His pale eyes cut across to John suddenly. "But you're correct, I am researching for you. Only, " his eyes strayed to the screen, "I was hoping to find a way to get you to want it first. I'll need more studying though. All of these people," he gestured at the screen, "have been totally wiling." He pursed his lips in thoughts. "Maybe if I-"

John, completely, totally, and utterly flabbergasted didn't stick around to hear the rest of Sherlock's plans.

Again, sorry for the formatting issues!

**-SM**


	9. Dream

**A/N:** Hey guys. This one's a bit short, sorry. I wanted to add more to it, but I've been really caught up in another story lately. I'll try to focus a bit more though.

**Word Count:** 882

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All John knew was that he was hot. Oh God, the heat. He was in a world of sensation, caught between Sherlock and the couch. Sherlock's mouth was on his, and it was hot and oh so right. He couldn't get enough of it, their limbs tangling in a pleasing way, Sherlock's hands on his body. It was amazing, and so _wrong_. Wrong, Wrong, WRONG!

Sherlock moaned against his mouth, bringing another wave of heat crashing through John. Why did he love the sound of his voice so much? That deep, invigorating baritone. Just the single syllable of his name on those gorgeous lips was enough to drive him crazy.

"Sherlock," he murmured as the detective's mouth left his in order to kiss along his neck and collar bone. His nimble fingers dropped and pushed at John's jumper, trying to pull it off. John was only too happy to help, sitting up slightly and pulling it over his head before tossing it casually to the floor. He'd already stripped Sherlock of his purple button down long before.

He continued kissing down John's chest, down past his belly button and stopped at the small trail of blonde hair that peeked out only a few inches above the waist line of his trousers. Raising his head, Sherlock caught John's gaze with his own, pale, inquisitive one. _Is this okay?_ It asked, though his fingers were already hooked in John's pants, revealing small patches of slightly tanned skin just under his hips.

John nodded, his breathing still ragged from Sherlock's kiss and going even more so as Sherlock peeled away the fabric of his jeans and tossed them away. For a moment Sherlock just sat, looking at him, almost as if he was studying John, trying to dissect him.

John, feeling rather embarrassed, smirked. "I know this isn't the first time you've seen a man," he joked weakly. "For Christ's sake, I caught you watching porn the other day."

Sherlock shook his head, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "John," he drew a small design on the inside of John's thigh using his fingertips. "You are simply _exquisite_."

John shuddered at Sherlock's touch and his cheeks flamed. What were you supposed to say to something like that? Thank you seemed laughably inadequate. As it was, he didn't have to say anything. Sherlock dropped his shaggy head of hair, and without a moment's pause, took John in.

He gasped, desperately trying to find a hand hold on the couch. "S-sherlock," he moaned, "s-s-stop!" But stop didn't mean stop. It meant go. It meant harder, faster, more more more! Sherlock obliged, adding his tongue into the passionate fray.

John arched his back, biting his lip to try and keep himself contained but failing. "Sherlock!" he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut, "I'm, I'm, g-going to-"

John sat up in bed with a start. He was gasping for breath and struggling to comprehend what exactly was going on. He…Sherlock….the couch? He looked down only to notice the messy state of his pyjama bottoms. _What? I….. had a ….dream….. about Sherlock? Oh, God…._He flopped back down in the dark with a groan. He covered his face with his arm, his breathing still irregular. The dream, the dream, it all came rushing back to him and he moaned involuntarily. Sherlock's mouth on his…Lord! What in hell was he doing? _What in hell was he thinking! _He wasn't gay! He wasn't! Was he? A little voice in the back of his mind asked. He shoved it, pushed the question away, refused to look at it. He wasn't gay! And most certainly not for one Mr. Annoying Sherlock Holmes. There was just no damned way. It wasn't possible. Or was it? Again the little voice spoke up. John would have decked it if you could punch tiny, invisible thoughts that existed only in one's head. Instead he shoved it away again, locking it away forever in his "Do Not Open" drawer.

"You're in looooove," it taunted, even hidden away. John gritted his teeth, close to tears now. Why was this such an issue? Yes, Sherlock was a handsome man. His slender body could put Calvin Klein to shame and don't even get him started on that deep, musical voice! His face alone could stop the world with that sexy little knowing smile. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was a God with that softy curly hair and those beautiful pale eyes, but that didn't mean John was automatically attracted to him….. Who was he kidding? That man was a fucking ADONIS! How could John not be attracted to him? He sighed and let that realization sink in. _Fine, I'm attracted to him. It doesn't mean I'm in love with him. _He felt like a small weight had been lifted from his chest and suddenly John was peaceful. With one denial out of the way and dealt with, John faded back into a Sherlock haunted sleep.

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The ending was a bit rushed, wasn't it? Hmm...well oh well. Please comment!

**-SM**


	10. A Midnight Watcher

**A/N:** Hey there! Welcome to chapter ten. =3 This is another short one, I'm afraid, but I didn't really want to change it too much. I like the way it is. Anyways, I'll probably be uploading number eleven, if not tonight, then some time tomorrow.

**Word Count: **828

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Sherlock lay in his bed, long fingers drumming against his chest in an irrationally irritated sort of way. John's room was directly above his and through the tranquility of the house, his moans echoed. Sherlock couldn't decide what it was about the deep throaty noise that bothered him. Every time the sound pierced his ear drum he fidgeted, fighting off the urge to get up and pace around the room. It was not the first time Sherlock had heard such things from the room overhead, but it was the first he'd heard his own name thrown into the fray. As if on cue, John gasped out his name, stuttering on the S. The sudden squeaking of bed springs alerted Sherlock that he had grabbed the bed in his imagined ecstasy.

Of course Sherlock had expected this kind of thing. He'd kissed the man for heaven's sake, even ran his hands up his thighs. Though worse things could have been done, what man wouldn't be attracted? It was only human nature, and Sherlock was quite aware, though he never let on, as to how attractive he was. He'd used it to his advantage plenty of times. Take Molly for example. All he had to do was smile at her and she was putty in his very capable hands.

He'd never expected to have so much fun taking advantage of John though. The kissing, the blushing, their eyes meeting from across the room or from across the table. It was all quite adorable really. The moaning had been another story. It nearly drove Sherlock up a wall. And yet he couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was about the sounds that bothered him. It wasn't just the sounds either. It was his name…the way it came out in that ragged, breathless tone, as if it was ripped from John's very core. It made him… rigid? He'd just now noticed the bulge through his bath robe. The sudden development startled Sherlock. One, because it came out of nowhere, two because it had never happened to him before. Ever. Hell, Irene had walked into the room butt-naked and his loins hadn't so much as twitched. He was tempted to prod at it, just to find out what it would do but decided against it. He wanted to explore _why _it had happened in the first place. John moaned again and Sherlock felt a twinge; a slight shudder, a throb almost, a….need. Was that it then? John's moans had sexually aroused him? But he'd heard them countless times before. "S-sher, sher, Sherlock!" Sherlock gasped as his cock throbbed again, only this time so much harder. What was this? This need, this _desire_? Is that what normal people felt? All that generated from hearing his own _name_. Well, he was constantly told he was a narcissist, but that was beside the point.

Sherlock sat up in bed, an idea quickly forming in his mind. He slithered out and was up the stairs to John's room in no time, merely ignoring his erection as something to deal with at a later time. Luckily, the door to John's room was open just a crack and Sherlock was able to peer in. He watched John as he convulsed, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Not to mention he was in a similar situation as Sherlock with his- John suddenly gasped and bolted upright in bed. Sherlock, who was hoping to study him a bit more, was slightly disappointed but he stayed where he was. He was confident the deep shadows there at the edge of the room would hide his presence, even from the keen ex-army man.

John flopped back down into the bed, groaning and still breathing heavily. With one arm thrown over his face it was obvious he was fighting with something. His expression changed, grimacing. Sherlock leaned, curiosity pushing him forward like an invisible tidal wave. What was upsetting him? What could it possibly be? From the sounds he had been making, he'd assumed the dream was a good one. Unless the dream had upset John. Maybe he was in denial. Maybe he wasn't open yet with himself. Sherlock ticked off the many things in his head John could be in denial about. The list was enormous.

"I wonder," Sherlock breathed the words, silent as the wind as he crept into the room. John lay still on his bed, breathing more easily than he had before. Shirtless, with dirty night pants hung low on his hips and covered in sweat; the site was quite alluring. Of course Sherlock realized how creepy it was as he stood, watching over his flat mate who'd just had a wet dream about him, with an erection and a small smile on his face. But realizing and caring are two different things. And so Sherlock stood, just contemplating his friend and the many things he could to him in the low light of the moon that streamed through the window.

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Rape the review button please! ^^ You know it loves it.

**-SM**


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